Week 10: Tanzanian Bed Time Stories
This week has been slow. The Danes were climbing Kilimanjaro, much of the research staff were elsewhere for a myriad of election related reasons, and I settled into a routine of wake, eat, coffee, work, dinner, browse the internet on my phone, sleep, repeat. Which honestly is pretty nice sometimes. After eating, I usually finish my coffee on the front porch, a nice view from my half way up a small mountain/hill vantage point to keep me company. The walk to and from work is pretty, the people are friendly, and the research is interesting, though a bit tedious at times. Every time I write a sentence I end up reading through about 14 hour long interview transcripts to make sure I meant it. Should be done with my first draft by the end of the week, I’ll tell you more about the results then. But in general, all is at peace in Korogwe despite the whole 35-year-ruling-party-winning-while-nullifying-Zanzibar’s-votes-and-widespread-accusations-of-vote-rigging-and-subsequent-teargas-and-fires-in-major-cities thing.
So I’m going to take this opportunity to share random vignettes, mostly from my experience. Some recent, some not. Some in Korogwe, others elsewhere.
Enjoy.
A Danish man gets into a Tanzanian taxi cab. He wants to go to the airport.
The cab driver obliges.
Half way to the airport, the driver tells the Dane “I’m going to pick up some friends. They’re taking flights too.”
Three more Tanzanian men crowd into the car and they drive off to an isolated area.
The driver turns around and announces “We are the robbers!”
Two of the men take all of his money and almost all of his possessions before leaving.
The remaining two men continue to drive him towards the airport.
The driver proceeds to give a long speech about not getting into packed cars with strange men and the dangers of unmarked taxi cabs in Tanzania. “We are the bad guys” he informed the Dane, “don’t get into cars with people like us.”
They drop him off within walking distance of the airport with nothing but his passport and boarding pass in hand.
I imagine they drove off towards the horizon, a shouted “Asante Sana!” hurled back as an afterthought as they disappeared into the Tanzanian sunset.
Another sleepy Sunday morning in Tanga.
I wanted nothing more than some chapatti and coffee. Hot black coffee to send that lovely fat-soluble psycho-active drug that is caffeine racing through my veins and crashing through my blood-brain barrier like it didn’t exist. Give me dopamine, give me acetylcholine, give me serotonin. Bring me to life.
But first I needed a shower.
Luckily for me, it hadn’t rained in a while, so no water and no shower.
Guess I didn’t need a shower.
I met Nick across from his favorite trinket market/slaughterhouse at around 9:30 am. We decided to try a place marked with a large brown sign with a small white coffee mug called COFFEE BAR (all caps used for authenticity).
On entrance, I noticed three patrons, all seemingly doing their best to ignore each other. One sat at the bar, his beer forming a never ending half completed rainbow as the ends of the bottle smashed eternally into his mouth and the bar top.
One sat outside, right leg folded across the other, “tsk tsk”-ing at his newspaper as only a more-than-mildly-but-less-than-severely irritated Tanzanian can.
The third sat as close to the wall mounted television as he could, craning his neck at an approximately 85 degree angle to watch the football highlights from the day before.
We sat at a table near a window, providing the tip of a perfect triangle that the other two inside COFFEE BAR hadn’t noticed they were missing.
The waitress appeared. Nick asked for a Krest Bitter Lemon Soda.
“Ndiyo. Na wewe?” (Yes, and you?)
“Kahawa” (Coffee)
[Swahili words I don’t really understand but assume meant “what else?”]
“Na maziwa” (And milk)
“Haya” (Ok)
-Five Minutes Later-
Nick is handed a Krest Tonic Water. Not what he ordered.
She pops the bottle cap off.
I laugh.
She hands me a beer. Castle Brand. Milk Stout. She pops the bottle cap off.
“Kahawa?” I ask, confused.
“Ahhhhhhhhh. Hamna.” (Oh. We have none.)
COFFEE BAR had no coffee.
She walked away.
It was 10 am by then. I drank the beer.
4:30 pm. Friday in Korogwe.
My Tanzanian friends have moved back to Dar, the Danes are climbing Kilimanjaro, dinner won’t be ready till 7:30 and I skipped lunch. I figured it was about time to leave work, watch some football, and go get a beer and some chipsi.
My waitress was drunk again and I had to argue over the bill in broken Swahili-English but that isn’t the point.
The point is the dude.
I passed him on the walk to town.
The dude was Tanzanian (I think). Skin the color of the boots his jeans were tucked in. Blue and white Dallas Cowboys cut-off sleeveless shirt pinned between his back and the closest you’re ever going to get to a pick-up truck in Korogwe (A motorcycle with a giant trailer retrofitted onto the back). He answered my “Habari” with a silent head nod.
And he had a mullet.
I will never forget the dude.
The illustrious JD Restaurant, a muzungu (white person/foreigner) and local favorite, sits in the center of Korogwe and tonight I sat in the center of it.
There is no door to this establishment, as it is more or less a roof on stilts with tables and chairs strewn under it, so there is a clear line of sight between pedestrians, traffic, and patrons alike.
When ordering at JD, there are four ways it can go. I‘ve experienced all of them.
1) You order something off of the menu, let us say it’s breakfast time and you ask for an omelet. They will tell you “Sorry, no eggs.” You will remind them that the market is literally touching the back of the restaurant. They will reply “Ahhhhh” and stare at you until you go buy the eggs or order something else or they get bored and walk away.
2) You order something off of the menu with no problems. You wait for your food. It never comes. You realize they forgot about your order and remind the waitress. She will say “Ahhhhh” and go correct it. You have now most likely entered scenario…
3) You order something off the menu. They say no problem. You wait for your food. And wait. And wait. Other people who just came in have been served within minutes and you’re getting hungry and confused. But finally your food comes out. I finally realized this happens because you didn’t set yourself up for scenario…
4) You ask the waitress what food is already ready. They will list it off your options and whatever you select will be out in minutes. Everyone is happy.
Tonight I really wanted curry, I knew it wouldn’t be ready (it never was) but I didn’t mind the wait. I had time. A man came off the street and into the restaurant selling his wares: a rack across his shoulders holding a rainbow of flip flops and the three live chickens he held by the neck in his hands.
I declined.
The man in front of me wanted a chicken but didn’t like the price. After a few minutes of haggling, during which the waitress brought the man his food and got him another drink, they finally agreed. The vendor switched all the chickens into his left hand, pulled three plastic bags out of his pocket with his right, and stuffed one of the chickens, still alive, into the plastic bags and handed it to the diner.
The vendor went on his way , whistling and the other commenced with his dining experience, satisfied with his dinner for tomorrow.
Most people I walk past in Korogwe assume I’m Tanzanian.
Usually from Pemba or Zanzibar. In most cases, this illusion persists even if I briefly have to speak, as long as the conversation does not go past greetings and pleasantries. If an actual conversation ensues, it becomes really obvious that I am not from here, or they assume something is wrong with me. The other dead giveaways are if I pull out my camera or my iPhone.
Today I was later to work than I wanted to be, so I was in a little bit of a rush. I often take a shortcut through a school yard to get from home to the main road. Usually the children ignore me or say “Shikamoo”, a respectful greeting to elders. Whenever a white person walks through they all yell “Good morning Sir/Madam!” at the top of their lungs and wave. Today, for some reason, I received the second greeting. I hadn’t spoken, my phone was in my pocket, and my camera was at home. I was confused. So I stopped to ask.
“How did you know to speak English to me?”
“You walk like muzungu”
“What?”
“Too fast. You walk too fast.”
Till next time. Stay slow my friends.
